


Where Your Heart Is

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Second Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-11
Updated: 2017-01-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 20:30:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9288446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Ivárë finds an old lover, and a new one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



“It was built by men, yes, but their ruling family died in a war with a neighbouring town and we...persuaded them to hand the castle over to us, after they refurbished it a bit.”

Ivárë turned this way and that, tilted his head back to take in the entire span of the ceiling, painted as a night sky. Twinkling. The stars were probably true diamonds, in a light more brilliant than that of a drab twilight they would give off star-like sparks. He peered at them, and pulled the folds of the woollen coat which complemented the silken tunic he had been given after bathing tighter around himself, absentmindedly remarking to himself that two of the most accomplished singers among the Eldar must have had easy sway over mere mortals, all the more so if the humans had been weakened by conflict with one another. The castle was curtained by as many as three defensive walls, with courtyards and outbuildings large enough to house a great many people in case of danger. The keep, where Daeron and Maglor lived, though more modest in size, was equipped with all the comforts this remote corner in the southernmost stretch of Middle-Earth could afford. 

So remote in fact that it took Ivárë a full decade before finally finding them after disembarking from the ship that had taken him to the harbour that passed for the seat of the King of the Exiles. 

“I make sure the townsfolk get enough Silmaril light to make them prosper and muffle any notion they might have of bothering us.”

Ivárë lowered his head, his eyes landing on Maglor with the same awe he would have felt upon finding the exact spot where a shooting star had hit the ground. A _fallen_ star. Maglor looked much taller than Ivárë remembered from where he was sat, his eyes brighter, like obsidian sharpened to rip hearts apart. “You learnt from the Valar's mistakes.”

Maglor dipped his head in his direction, bestowed a smug smile on him, then resumed tuning the bizarre musical instrument that towered in the centre of the room among an orderly chaos of other instruments and music sheets. _That_ had not changed since Valinor, a way of arranging his work-space Maglor had inherited from his father. Perhaps it was one of the ways in which Maglor chose to keep his father alive, too, meandering his days through new inventions and half-finished projects.

“Well, I'm glad to find you both hale...and happy,” Ivárë said, turning towards Daeron. 

Daeron had not moved from the spot where he had been standing when Ivárë arrived, barely uttering a greeting and staring at him openly with inquisitive eyes while Maglor and he embraced. Even now Daeron's eyes were glued to him, followed his every movement with purposeful alertness. Curiosity was plain in them, wrapped up with a good coating of wariness. Not exactly hostility. Jealousy, Ivárë decided, though not the kind born of simple possessiveness.

“Did you expect to find us together?” Maglor asked, with a sly edge to his voice that directed Ivárë's attention to him again. 

“Well, you were both supposed to have gone off and disappeared, wandering aimlessly and singing your sorrow. Either that meant you did it together or people in these parts are really unimaginative when it comes to concocting tales.”

Maglor's smug smile became even smugger. Ivárë caught with the corner of his eye the grin that pulled Daeron's thin mouth even thinner. 

One of the mortals who looked after the castle, the one who had received Ivárë at the gates, came in and set a tray with a tall jug and three cups on the only uncluttered spot on a large table – a spot which matched the tray's oval shape to perfection – while Maglor gave her instructions in her own tongue, a string of unknown sounds that tickled Ivárë's ears. 

The woman didn't answer but bowed in assent and retreated, walking backwards towards the door until she grasped the handle and slipped out with a nimbleness worthy of an elven dancer. Ivárë stood and inspected the tray with grateful interest. The smell wafting from the jug was inviting, its warmth even more so. He poured some of the steamy liquid into one of the cups, lifted it and took a deep breath. The smell of spices sizzled in his nostrils and spread in his chest. Holding the cup with both hands, he walked over to Maglor. 

“So -...you claim this misshapen box can produce music?”

Maglor struck a key. Ivárë winced.

The box made a metallic, strident sound, unlike any Ivárë had heard before and not pleasant in the least. He let his eyes slide off the painted case-top and bent a little to the side to peer under the instrument.

“It's like a giant psaltery, only you don't directly pluck the strings – these keys to the job, by moving a plectrum inside the length of the instrument.”

“What are its advantages over a regular...pure-sounding instrument?”

“Not many, actually. It's not a matter of advantages. You might be able to produce a larger variety of pitches and a greater number of notes, I suppose,” Maglor offered, dragging the back of his index finger along the whole length of the lower keyboard. The instrument remained silent save for the faint rasp of Maglor's finger sliding from key to key. “You can also...play together with someone else.”

Maglor's piercing black eyes darted towards Daeron, who returned the glance with an eager burst of fervour. Then he shifted on his feet and wet his mouth to speak. “Its greatest advantage is that it's not a movable instrument. You need to be settled down to have one.” 

Ivárë bit his lower lip to stifle a snicker – for someone who had not said anything until then, the remark was unexpectedly forward.

“How do things fare in Valinor?”

“Your mother is fine, still smothered in praises and commiseration.”

Maglor went still for an instant, then lifted his hands and brought his fingers down on the keyboard, striking several keys at once in calculated cacophony. Swiftly, artfully, he lifted them again and began playing a melody made of speed and fire.

Daeron shifted on his feet, tension easing out of his crossed arms, and he closed his eyes, as if entrusting himself to the arms of a lover. 

Ivárë concentrated on Maglor's fingers, which were moving so fast that they all but blurred on the keys. The melody was fitful, brazen, and perfectly suited to the instrument's harsh sonority. Like clouds gathering in a leaden sky, brooding heralds of a vicious storm. Ivárë could have imagined Maglor concocting such a storm. He narrowed his eyes, blocking out sight in favour of listening more closely to the sequence of the notes. Maglor could probably do that, with the Silmaril and nearly three thousand years on his side to hone his talent. 

The piece reeled on, with many repetitions and variations. It ended abruptly, with a low, sombre note. 

Ivárë took a sip of the hot spicy beverage he still held in both hands before speaking again. “For the rest, Valinor is as it ever was. The Vanyar who fought in the War of Wrath have long since been restored to life, as was your cousin Findaráto.” 

Maglor gave a snicker. “Too much primness for the Halls.”

“The Valar will have missed being fawned over. They get precious little of that from humans nowadays. Things do not look good for Númenor. I ventured the possibility of leaving in order to seek you and bring you back to them if found, you know, but the Valar's response wasn't quite encouraging.”

“But you bypassed it.”

“Of course. I left my harp to play in my room. My old beloved companion, I trust Elemmírë will keep good care of it. Not quite as inventive as your –”

“Harpsichord.”

“Harpsichord here, to be sure, but it did its job. It kept playing until I was safely on board one of the few Númenorean ships that still sail to Aman.”

“Are you sure they don't know where you are?”

“If nobody knows where you are...” Ivárë scoffed. “Your Silmaril clearly prevents unwanted intrusions, as I'm sure you intend, otherwise I doubt people would have such muddied ideas about your whereabouts.”

Maglor neither confirmed nor denied the assumption. Ivárë didn't need any confirmation. 

“At any rate, I am mightily glad indeed that you still think kindly enough of him to allow me to find you,” he gibed playfully. He set his cup down on the flat top of the harpsichord and coaxed Maglor into another embrace. The muffled huff from Daeron didn't escape him. 

A pleased smile spread on Ivárë's face. 

*

“You don't play it?” Ivárë asked, opening his legs wider to press against Daeron's thigh. Daeron didn't pull away.

A man from the town had come to the castle in a haste, begging Maglor to heal his child, who had suddenly fallen ill, and so Maglor had left them with the instruments and some ground to cover to get close. They had made short work of it: Daeron sat next to him on the sofa quite eagerly after Ivárë asked him to refill his cup. 

“Only together with Glaur-nin,” Daeron replied, drawing the nickname out. “You may learn to play it if you like, and then we might try a piece for three.”

Ivárë bit the corner of his mouth, hiding a grin in his cup. “So you don't mind if I stay here?” he asked, with the obvious added meaning of _you aren't jealous_.

“You were his teacher?” Daeron asked in turn.

“In a way, yes.” Ivárë blew on the tea, though it had cooled by then, and took a sip of it, then pursed his lips and stuck them out, not quite satisfied with his own answer, and wondering at the same time just how much Maglor had told Daeron about his life in Valinor. “That is, to a certain extent.”

“Which extent?”

“What I mean is – I taught him some technicalities, necessary knowledge to be sure, but Macalaurë would follow his inspiration alone...much like his father. In other areas, Macalaurë was much more of an expert than me. Picky, but voracious when he finds something...or someone he likes.”

Daeron nodded with a grin, but then his expression became wistful. “I...feared you'd come to take him away...take him home.”

“...are you so attached to him?” 

The question was born of honest curiosity, and Daeron took it as such. He turned, held Ivárë's gaze and said, “I'm attached to the...feeling of home.” 

“ _Valinor_ was never much of a home to Macalaurë. It'd take his father or his brothers to give him any sort of purpose there. In fact, I'm a little surprised he's still alive.”

Ivárë drained his cup. Daeron took it from him and set it on the sidetable. With his hands free, Ivárë gestured towards the large window. 

“How did you come this far?”

“The wandering part of the tales wasn't a fabrication. No place felt right. It might be a heaviness in the air, or the shape of the trees. When we finally came to this place we could go no further...the road back north was long, to retrace it would be pointless, and we chanced to arrive when people here still reeled from the war, still grieved their losses. They could not refuse a promise for protection and peace.”

“And so you ended up roosting in your own love-nest.”

A hint of amusement crept into Daeron's eyes, and it trickled into his voice too. “There are no fledglings.”

While Ivárë laughed Daeron strew his arm across his shoulders, heavy but tender, accepting. Ivárë snuggled closer, basking in the warmth of Daeron's body. The last few leagues of his journey had been quite exhausting – the extreme south of Middle-Earth turned out to be much colder than the north. “Sing something for me? To soothe my weariness. Your lover is a bad host to his friend and teacher. Sing me of how you two ended up together.”

“Most of it isn't pretty,” Daeron quickly said, but the rumble of his voice made Ivárë shiver in something different from cold. Daeron smelled nice, too – of wet trees in spring, when young leaves and blossoms lend a particular fizz to the air.

“I never much liked absolute righteousness, you know. Knowing Macalaurë would have probably given Manwë an idea of the true nature of evil even before anything went awry.” 

“Well then.”

Daeron began to sing. Ivárë drew his feet up on the sofa and nestled completely against him, body and soul. Tiredness slowly overcame him, and his eyes fell shut of their own accord. The last thing he was aware of was of Daeron combing a hand through his hair – he would have murmured his appreciation if his lips didn't feel sealed shut, but his contentment bubbled up his chest in a hum.

*

Ivárë came to in a large, cosy bed, the warmth from another body swathing his own, a slow gentle melody bathing his ears. Moving as if he were in a dream, he reached out to touch the hair that tickled his nose: it was smooth and silky. Daeron's then. Cracking one eye open, he rolled over. 

The other side of the bed was empty, but there was a single lamp half-unscreened on the far side of the window. The curtains were open and in the bluish halo from the lamp he could just barely make out snow falling in slow large flakes like lazy petals beyond the glass clouded over with frost. The sight was mesmerising, almost, the sluggish cadence of the falling snow the same as that of the music. The the high-pitched notes could have been invisible snowflakes which had traded their visibility for sound. It took him a few moments to recognise the melody.

He sat up.

“Did I wake you?” Maglor asked softly, looking up from a smaller version of the harpsichord, tucked in the corner just under the lamp. “I like to play when I can't sleep.”

Ivárë shook his head, ignoring how the cold stung his skin through the silk of his garments. He glimpsed the woollen coat he had worn strewn over the back of an armchair.

Maglor finished his piece, closed the lid of the harpsichord and crossed the room to sit down next to Ivárë on the bed. “You fell asleep in Daeron's arms. We took the liberty of carrying you here.”

Ivárë pulled Maglor down for a kiss. “It is selfish of you to play for yourself alone,” he said against his lips.

“Not for me alone,” Maglor whispered back, nipping at Ivárë's lips, then his gaze glided over Ivárë's shoulder to Daeron's sleeping form. “He listens, in his sleep.”

Ivárë scoffed. “In his sleep? And here I was, thinking I should tread carefully not to make your lover jealous. You're making _me_ jealous.”

“You have no need to be.” Maglor shed his housecoat and slipped under the covers. Ivárë was glad to do the same, and even though Maglor's body was cold, he was glad when Maglor motioned for him to roll over and plastered himself to his back, too. “You can be part of that bond too.”

Maglor wrapped both of Ivárë's hands around Daeron's hand, which lay palm-up on the bed between them, as if he had been expecting it to be gripped sooner or later, then closed his hands around Ivárë's.

“Sleep, and your soul will know.”


End file.
